


Reach

by gomikaki



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shigatsu wa Kimi no Uso | Your Lie in April Fusion, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But it'll be cute too, DJ Otabek Altin, Deaf Character, Deaf Yuri Plisetsky, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Loss, M/M, Ok highkey, Otabek's lowkey a giant nerd, Terminal Illnesses, Violinist!Yuri, musician au, pianist!otabek, this is gonna get sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-21 01:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gomikaki/pseuds/gomikaki
Summary: Otabek Altin, the piano prodigy, the "Hero of Kazakhstan", has done all he can to escape both the death of his younger sister, Nuriya, and the music he feels has abandoned him. No longer able to hear the notes he plays, Otabek wants nothing more than to forget the piano once and for all. That is, until a strange encounter with a rain-soaked violinist sparks the reawakening of something he knows he could never truly give up.Inspired by Your Lie in April.





	1. Year of the Silent Sun

It was a sudden plunge into nuclear winter.

Everything which had once held vibrancy was now enveloped in cold, grey silence.

Only moments ago, the fifteen-year-old Kazakh prodigy, Otabek Altin, had been attacking the keys of the piano before him, pouring his soul out before an enraptured audience. It had been an indescribable performance. The raw force of the melody leaving even the rival musicians waiting in the wings stunned speechless, one child drawn in so absolutely, he was almost leaned in close enough to join the performer on stage.

It was then that absolutely nothing changed.

Nothing, that is, besides the sudden feeling of two small hands guiding his own across the keys. The feeling of his blood running cold. The unshakable feeling that if he would just turn his head, he’d see her there beside him on the piano bench.

Until just then, Otabek had managed to keep this ghost at bay. But he would be lying if he said he hadn’t anticipated this. His rough notes conveyed his active resistance to this memory loud and clear. But she had been the one to teach him this song, and there was no way to put that fact out of mind when he was this close to the music.

Otabek withdrew from the keys for only a moment before pressing forward, hands trembling, with even more violence than before.

And yet…

Otabek’s hands leapt from the piano as if singed by the keys. Desperately trying to make sense of what was happening, the young pianist stared down at the suddenly foreign instrument before him. Forcing himself to exhale his held breath, he hesitantly placed his hands back on the keys and slowly pressed down.

Silence.

Clenching his eyes shut, he steadily began to slam the keys harder and harder. But the result was always the same.

Absolute silence.

He felt a different sensation graze his hands then as hot, angry tears began to spill over the piano. His strikes slowly losing momentum, Otabek’s performance came to a close, and the performance hall around him faded away like a distant memory.

Colorless. Lifeless. Voiceless.

 *

“Fucking soulless…”

An 18-year-old Otabek muttered under his breath, shifting uncomfortably on the piano bench in the high school music room. While he hadn’t had much hope that his recent move to Russia would help clear the fog he had found himself living in, he would be lying if he didn’t admit he was disappointed in just how little the change of scenery had affected him. He heaved a sigh of frustration, rubbing his chin as he started down at the multicolored music tracks displayed on the laptop sitting beside him. The boy sighed discontentedly and returned to adjusting the piece.

After, what seemed to him, a more than sufficient amount of time had passed, Otabek restarted the track and squeezed his eyes shut, focusing intently on the music. Almost immediately, the rhythm pumping through the teenager’s headphones was broken by his loud groan of dissatisfaction.

“Great. Can’t even make other people’s music sound good anymore, can you?” He ran both hands through his hair, eyes never once breaking their focus on the screen.

The piece was missing something. Something vital. And for the life of him, the former musician could not put his finger on just what it was. He only knew that as it was now, this remix lacked feeling. It was just a beat to be mindlessly danced to. But, he supposed, that was all the club he had been DJing at was really asking for. In fact, if he played this mix exactly the way it was later on tonight, he was positive the gig would go off without a hitch.

But that wasn’t enough. Not for him.

Otabek exhaled deeply and cracked his neck from side to side resolutely. He wasn’t going to cut his losses just yet. He couldn’t. After all, he was a musician. Or at least, he had been once.

Scrolling desperately through his library for anything he could use to breathe life into his dull mix, the DJ’s gaze came to rest on the one track he always found himself unable to pass over. His mouse hovered over the selection.

_Étude in A minor, Op. 25, No. 11 “Winter Wind” - Yuri Plisetsky_

 

  _“Isn’t he amazing, Beka?”_

_Nuriya had inquired excitedly upon showing him this performance for the first time in her small, unsettlingly white hospital room back in their hometown of Almaty, Kazakhstan. Otabek had been 13 then, and as he stared past his younger sister at the young Russian pianist on her laptop screen, all he could think was how the word “amazing” couldn’t even begin to describe the sheer perfection and beauty of what he was hearing. And through it all, what had really entranced Otabek had been the fearless determination in the striking green eyes of this seemingly inhuman performer._

_He could feel each note etch itself into his very soul. This performance—_

_No—_

_This performer was—_

_“Monstrous, almost…” the young pianist had mused aloud, earning a soft giggle from his sister._

_“Right?” Looking back at her expression, Otabek could tell she had been just as deeply affected. Perhaps, even more so._

_“He’s Russian, but… Well,” her eyes had suddenly darted away from the screen as if the sight of this brilliant performer had become too much to bear, “I had hoped that if I could make it to the international level that maybe…”_

_Otabek’s eyes had flashed with borrowed determination then, his hand coming to rest on Nuriya’s shoulder._

_“You will, Nuriya. We both will.”_

_Her half-hearted smile then had said it all. She had already known the truth of what was to follow. And though he’d never have admitted it, somewhere inside, so did Otabek._

 

The familiar melody brings Otabek back to the present. Somehow, without any awareness of having done so, the DJ had already begun playing the old performance on his laptop. Though his passion for the piano had long been dead, Yuri Plisetsky was nonetheless mesmerizing.

Brown eyes absentmindedly drifting to settle on the piano in front of him, reaching. And for just the slightest moment, the former musician swore he could almost feel the piano reach back out to him.

“Chopin fan, huh?”

Otabek jolted backwards, nearly smacking directly into the redhead that had somehow materialized behind him.

“Milla…” the DJ groaned in exasperation as he pried the headphones from his head.

“Never woulda pegged you as one. Especially considering how your piano playing days are behind you and all,” she teased, circling around the startled brunette to lean against the piano.

Otabek simply stared back at her, his expression unaffected.

“Can I help you?”

“Well, considering _my_ piano playing days aren’t quite behind _me_ , I was thinking I’d come rehearse for my upcoming competition. But you were here first, and I can see the piano is certainly being put to very good use,” she mockingly cocked an eyebrow at Otabek’s setup.

“Just came here for the peace and quiet.” He turned his attention back to his laptop which was still issuing barely audible notes from his abandoned headphones.

“Have I ruined that, yet?” Milla smirked.

Otabek looked back up at Milla, and was immediately caught off guard by his classmate’s sudden change in demeanor. Eyes now firmly trained on Otabek’s headphones, some undefinable emotion had crossed her face as the teenagers shared a strange silence.

“Y’know…” she began, a note of hesitation standing out in stark contrast to her usual boldness, “If you’re into this sort of music, my kid brother’s got a competition coming up next weekend. He’s sort of hoping for a big turnout since this performance is actually a pretty huge deal for him. He’s not a pianist, but somehow I’m thinking this might be right up your alley.”

“Since my piano days are behind me and all?” Otabek reflected Milla’s words back at her flatly.

“Precisely.”

The boy’s mouth formed a hard line as he looked back down at his screen. Milla watched him for a moment before pursing her lips and nodding, content to cut her losses.

“Guess that’s a pass,” she sighed, spinning on her heel and heading for the door. “Anyway, you’ve got dibs on the room, I guess. Try not to put it to waste, yeah?”

Otabek offered a rigid nod in response, eyes not leaving his laptop.

The click of the door signaling his classmate’s departure, Otabek allowed his attention to be drawn back to the piano looming ominously before him.

Otabek slowly closed his laptop, giving up on mixing for the time being, and gently placed it on the floor beside him. Exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, the reluctant musician gingerly lifted the fallboard, revealing the timeworn keys of the piano. Trembling fingers reached out and plunged immediately into the Chopin arrangement at the exact place where Yuri Plisetsky had been cut off.

For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed. As if the piano had never betrayed him. As if no time had been lost at all between the pianist and his passion. And for an almost immeasurable fraction of a second, Otabek began to lose himself, tangled up in the melody.

It was then that roaring silence fell upon him like a thick blanket of snow, swallowing every last note and leaving only the hollow thudding of the keys in their place.

“Damn it!”

Otabek slammed both fists down on the keys. Surely the resulting sound had been a horrendous assault on anyone in close proximity to the music room, but not an echo of it could reach him.

 

 *

So maybe it wasn’t the most inspired way of re-working his mix.

After all, samples of Plisetsky’s old performances seemed to have found their way into the majority of Otabek’s recent compositions. This hadn’t escaped Otabek’s notice. In fact, as he lay in his small, one room apartment on the couch which also served as his bed listening to his latest work, he noted just how similar this piece sounded to every mix he had ever produced.

And yet, now the song held something it hadn’t earlier that day in the music room.

Just what it was, he couldn’t say. Words like “life,” “depth,” “wholeness,” all seemed to fall short of what Otabek felt as the music flowed through him, filling up his lungs as if it were the air itself. Otabek closed his eyes, allowing each note to wash over him; encapsulate him in an indescribable warmth.

It had always been like this. Where music itself consistently proved itself disloyal, Otabek could never seem to find himself disenchanted with Yuri Plisetsky. No matter the piece, the Russian prodigy was able to breathe new life into whatever he performed. He played with such precision, such confidence. And it was more than that, really. His music itself had a presence, an almost haunting quality. And it had been this unidentifiable something which had inspired a young Otabek back when his career as a competitive pianist had first begun. While he had always possessed the necessary passion for the piano, he hadn’t been a natural talent.

Not like Nuriya.

Despite being younger than Otabek, she had gained the national attention of Kazakhstan much sooner than he had even appeared on their radar. But her career was also put to an end far before Otabek’s. Far before it was ever meant to.

But he had continued on for the both of them. And just when he was ready to admit he was getting nowhere in competition, when he was ready to give up, Nuriya had shown him Plisetsky’s performance of Winter Wind and somehow, it was as if he had found the answer to a question he hadn’t even thought to ask himself.

Here was a boy playing a Chopin song he had heard played a million times before, and yet, never had the piece sounded so resilient, so sure of itself. Here was confidence and strength incarnate. Here in the unforgettable eyes of a soldier.

Here was what he had been missing.

Yuri Plisetsky had become something of an obsession after that. More than that, he had become a goal. Otabek would go after his dream just as resolutely, just as passionately. One day he would play on the world stage with this monster. He would become a musician his sister could be proud of.

The final note of Otabek’s mix dissipated into the air and slowly carried Otabek back to the present.

He had long wondered what had become of the young pianist that had inspired so much of who he had been as a musician. Though he had made it a point to keep up with the Russian’s career, there had been notably little to follow for quite some time. It had been years now—four, maybe even five—since Plisetsky had played in any sort of competition, international or otherwise.

It had been some sort of illness which kept him out of competition. The details of this hadn’t been concealed by any means, but somehow Otabek could never bring himself to read them in full. It had been much too familiar to him. Another musician he had looked up to falling ill far too young. And as time passed without word of him on the competition circuit, it only became more and more impossible to look into the pianist’s updated condition.

Perhaps he’d look him up someday.

Perhaps, but probably not.

From across the room, Otabek’s phone began to chime. For a moment, Otabek just lied there, perfectly content to greet whomever might be on the other end of the line with his pre-recorded voicemail message, before recognizing the personalized ringtone and subsequently darting across the room.

Retrieving the phone from its place on the kitchen counter, Otabek glanced down at the screen.

Shit.

Another FaceTime request.

Otabek’s eyes flickered involuntarily to the piano swallowed almost entirely by dust, old homework assignments, and assorted articles of clothing left all but forgotten in the corner of the room. He immediately denied the FaceTime request, instead opting to return a voice call.

“Sorry, Mom. Still can’t get FaceTime to work.” He ran a hand through his hair; a dead giveaway of the lie, had he been FaceTiming his mother. However, since this was not the case, she simply made a small noise of frustration, easily accepting the excuse as fact.

“Can’t be helped, I suppose. Maybe once you’re all settled in you’ll look into getting that fixed? I may have agreed to let you leave the country to study under Yakov Feltsmen, but I did so under the impression that I’d still be able to see my son’s face once in a while.”

Ah, yes. Another lie. He’d be telling far too many lies lately.

And to tell the truth, he hated himself for it. He had never been skilled at telling lies, and he had preferred it that way. But he couldn’t stay at home anymore, and he couldn’t stay in Kazakhstan. Not when he had been dubbed the “Hero of Kazakhstan” and burdened with all that such a name entails. Not when he was expected to bring glory to his nation all the while he could no longer even hear the notes he played.

It had been too much. It was fight or flight, and after over two years of struggling, he didn’t see much sense in fighting any longer.

And so, he had publicly announced his plan study under a world renowned Russian piano instructor in order to get his career back on track. Of course, he had kept the name of this mythical instructor out of his announcement, letting only his mother in on his supposed “secret identity” in order to earn her approval of his desertion.

Yakov Feltsmen was, indeed, a bona fide pianist. He had instructed many of Russia’s greatest talents, including one Yuri Plisetsky. But Otabek had never himself spoken with the man, and he never intended to.

“Sorry,” he repeated, truly meaning it, “I’ll get it fixed as soon as I can,” he finished, knowing full well he wouldn’t be FaceTiming her anytime soon.

*

Otabek could specifically recall that there had been a zero percent chance of rain that night. And because there had been no chance of rain, he had taken his motorcycle to the club. And because he had decided to drive his motorcycle to his gig earlier that night, it was now pouring rain.

Because of course it was.

Clutching his laptop bag to his chest, he folded it safely into his leather jacket as he watched raindrops ricochet violently against the pavement in all directions. No way he’d make it back alive on his bike with weather like this. At the very least, he was on good terms with the owner of the club, and was sure leaving his bike overnight wouldn’t be much of a problem.

Somewhat luckily, this particular club was only a short distance away from his apartment, so walking was still an option. Or at least, it was before Otabek witnessed the outright beating the streets were taking from the rain and imagined his own skin in place of the pavement.

Yeah, walking was out.

Otabek vaguely recalled a bus stop he had passed earlier in front of a strip of shops about a street over. Though it was now past two in the morning and Otabek had yet to fully familiarize himself with the public transport schedules in Saint Petersburg, he hinged on the hope that buses never completely stopped running in a city this large. If all else failed, at least the bus stop was covered and would provide far better protection from the rain than the small sliver of roof hanging over the outside of the club while he waited for a taxi.

Hunching slightly forward to add an additional layer of protection to his laptop, Otabek made a break for it, dashing half-blind through the biting cold rain until finally reaching the safety of the bus stop. Pulling the laptop bag free from inside his jacket and giving it a quick once over to insure it had survived the journey, Otabek set it down on the bench and took a seat beside it. Now that he had found sufficient shelter, the rain had begun to let up.

Because of course it would.

It was then that Otabek heard something. Something faint and beautiful reaching out to him through the rain. Turning his head to peer through the rain-veiled glass covering, Otabek could see a blurred form out on the fire escape on the second floor of the shop directly behind him. As he watched the distorted figure, the sound issuing from it became more pronounced, picking up both volume and tempo.

He could clearly make out now that it was a violin being played. However, this wasn’t like any violin performance he had ever heard before. What he was hearing now was wild, biting, raw. The tempo rose and fell freely, fluidly, keeping Otabek enraptured in the vibrant life of the melody.

The boy on the fire escape was violently abusing his bow, the movements of his arms and body every bit as electric as his music, as if the two were on the same circuit. Though the young violinist was shielded from the rain in part by a scrap of roofing hanging out over the fire escape and in part by the large, black hoodie he was wearing, he had still somehow managed to become almost completely soaked through, long blond hair plastered to his face, neck, and shoulders as several stray raindrops drummed softly against both him and his instrument. The boy, though, had seemed completely unaware of this fact, focused solely on the mesmerizing sound he was creating.

Speaking of the rain, it had suddenly become quite a bit colder and damper under the refuge of the bus stop. Perhaps it wasn’t a very effective shelter after all.

“Yo!”

Otabek jumped, taken aback by the jolting tone which had abruptly taken the place of the enchanting violin.

“What’s with you, asshole?” The violinist barked, his bow, still raised above his head, now pointed down at Otabek like a scorpion’s tail poised to attack. Eyes cutting straight through the rain and into his unwelcome audience, the ethereal musician had transformed into something fearsome. 

It was then that Otabek realized just where he had been watching the violinist’s performance from. No longer was he shielded by the glass covering of the bus stop. No, somehow he now found himself standing directly in front of the building where the boy had been playing, being unwittingly drenched by the pouring rain.

What the hell?

All Otabek could do was stare back in response. In all honesty, he had no idea what was “with him.” Somehow or another, he had been drawn in by the violinist’s siren song, and now here he was, out in the rain, staring up into the home of a total stranger.

Nothing he could say would help him to recover from this.

And so, he simply turned around, retrieved his laptop from the bus stop, and resolved to just walk the rest of the way home.


	2. Winter Wind

While Otabek had entertained the idea of ghosts before as a child, and yes, maybe once or twice in his adult life as well, he never could convince himself until now that their existence was an actual possibility.

Not until finding himself inexplicably drawn back to the shop he had been stranded in front of a week prior, helplessly overcome with the need to hear the otherworldly hum of that violin, every single day since.

He hadn’t even realized he had been doing so at first. He would reason he had just zoned out on his ride home, missed his usual turn. However, after the third straight day of find himself stalling out in front of the bus stop overlooked by that fire escape, he knew he could no longer chalk this up to coincidence.

Surely, something was compelling him to return day after day to that place, and at this point, who was to say it hadn’t been, well…

No. That was crazy.

Just because Otabek hadn’t encountered the violinist again despite his frequent travels back to the scene of his late night performance didn’t mean he hadn’t really been there once. And yet, Otabek had still found himself lingering outside the door of what he had discovered to be a pirozhki shop with the strange desire to ask its owner whether he had experienced any paranormal activity in the building.

However, not quite willing to go full ghost hunter, Otabek had simply opted to purchase a couple pirozhki and head back to his apartment, pretending he hadn’t completely lost his mind.

It was on that trip home, just when he had resolved to give up on the boy he had heard playing above the pirozhki shop once and for all, that he was once again greeted by his familiar presence.

Well, less “greeted” than he was jolted into a full-on panic as the boy recklessly darted out into the street in front of his bike, nearly sending Otabek flying over the handlebar as he came screeching to a halt.

The boy who was responsible for nearly causing several automobile accidents, on the other hand, didn’t seem to realize just where he was. His gazed fixed on something behind him as he ran, the blond didn’t turn his attention to his surroundings until he was already in the middle of the street. His eyes almost doubling in size as realization struck him, he immediately scrambled the rest of the way across the street, nearly collapsing against the sidewalk as he attempted to catch his breath.

For a brief moment, Otabek just stalled there in the middle of the road, trying to register just what had taken place. There was no mistaking it, the boy that had narrowly escaped death in the streets of Saint Petersburg had certainly been the violinist from the fire escape. And Otabek could now say with conviction that he was definitely not a ghost.

What had caused him to run out into the busy city streets, however, he couldn’t say.

But something seemed wrong.

The shriek of several blaring car horns attacking his eardrums simultaneously, Otabek was effectively broken from his trance. As he slowly began to move forward once again, Otabek’s gaze drifted to his rearview mirror, catching on a shock of blond hair which hung down just above the pavement of the sidewalk. The boy was still checking over his shoulder for something, face dangerously pale.

Something was definitely wrong.

Although he couldn’t recall ever making the conscious decision to do so, Otabek found himself suddenly driving in the opposite direction, following after the violinist.

“Hey!” Otabek called, catching up to the blond and pulling his motorcycle over just in front of him. “Get on,” he offered, slightly inclining his head towards the space behind him. After several awkward seconds of the ragged-breathed blond staring back at Otabek as if he had materialized out of thin air, Otabek removed the helmet from his head and extended it out to the dumbfounded boy before him. “Are you coming or not?”

Though the boy didn’t seem to comprehend just what was happening, after a quick once-over of Otabek, the boy whipped out his cellphone, quickly punched something in on the screen, jammed it into Otabek’s hands in exchange for the helmet, and hopped on the bike.

Otabek blinked in confusion as he stared down at the GPS map on the display of the cellphone in his hands. “You want me to take you here?”

After a long moment of silence, Otabek turned to see the boy behind him seated as far away from him as physically possible, absentmindedly pulling one of the sleeves of his already oversized black hoodie further down over his hand, staring off in the direction from which he had come running.

Otabek simply nodded and set his eyes back on the road, accepting the dead air as an answer in the affirmative. “You may want to hold on,” the older teenager advised, quickly peering over his shoulder to see his suggestion going completely ignored before starting back down the road.

“Shit!” In an almost immediate response to the bike lurching forward, a slender pair of arms wound themselves around Otabek’s waist, clinging for dear life.

The corners of his mouth twinging upwards in mild amusement, Otabek continued down the road, following the electric blue path of the GPS.

 

Upon arriving at their destination, the boy quickly detached himself from the motorcyclist and climbed off the bike, his eyes quickly scanning the perimeter for something. Clearly disappointed in the absence of whatever it was he had been searching for, the blond turned his attention to Otabek, who was still in the middle of disembarking, and thrusted a hand out an inch away from Otabek’s face.

“I’m gonna need my phone back. There’s no point in me coming here if she doesn’t show,” he grumbled.

Otabek had barely had time to return the phone to its owner before the Russian was angrily tapping away at the screen, mumbling something under his breath. In spite of the time he had had to recover, the boy was no less pallid, his breathing still shallow. Otabek was beginning to wonder whether it might be best to convince him to let him drop him off at a hospital rather than out in front of a music hall when a small hand tapped roughly on his shoulder.

“Hey. Thanks for…,” the younger teenager struggled, “Why did you help me out, anyway?”

Otabek shrugged, “Does there need to be a reason?”

The blond rose an eyebrow, “Guess not.” His eyes narrowed, searching Otabek’s face for a moment as if attempting to solve a puzzle. “Do I know you?”

Otabek stared back at him, dumbfounded.

There was no way.

Absolutely no way.

“You mean you didn’t recognize me, but… you still got on my motorcycle?”

The blond planted both hands on his hips and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, ‘what if you had been a murderer’, right?” He mocked. “Whatever. I was getting here whether I had to fight off a murderer or not.”

The older teen simply sighed in response, never minding the fact that this boy had been in absolutely no condition to “fight off a murderer”.

“And besides, if you are a murderer, you’re doing a shit job. You’ve definitely missed your best opportunity to kill me,” he added snarkily, eyes darting back down at the phone his fingers were drumming restlessly against. Suddenly, the boy froze, green eyes freshly struck by realization darting back up to meet Otabek’s.

“Holy. Shit.” He jammed a finger in the motorcyclist’s direction. “You’re that creepy-ass homeless guy, right?”

Otabek blinked rapidly in confusion. ‘Homeless’? What would give the impression—

“You were hanging around my fire escape at two in the morning in the rain,” the blond elaborated, reading the question posed by the older teen’s facial expression effortlessly. “It’s kinda weirder if you’re not homeless.”

“Otabek? No way!” A voice called from behind him. Otabek turned to see Milla running towards him, face flushed, with a small leopard print instrument case in hand. “I seriously didn’t think you’d come! What changed your mind?”

“Didn’t think I’d come?” Otabek rose an eyebrow. “To what?”

The young violinist quickly peered around him, eyes narrowing sharply as he caught sight of Otabek’s classmate. “It’s about time! Damn thing only started fifteen minutes ago!” The boy roared accusatorially.

Milla jumped, surprised by the sudden outburst before breaking into a guilty smile and hastily rushing over to the exasperated blond. She made a quick hand gesture, her facial features conveying it to be an apology. The younger teenager rolled his eyes, signing back something which very clearly said her apology was not accepted.

Milla’s eyes narrowed slightly at this, as she thrusted the leopard print case out in front of her and signed what seemed to Otabek to be a counter argument of some sort.

The boy’s expression flattening a bit, he reluctantly signed what Otabek recognized to mean “thank you”, before greedily snatching the case and running off toward the entrance of the music hall.

“Geez,” Milla groaned, shaking her head in exasperation as she turned back to Otabek, “He doesn’t text me he that needs his violin picked up from his place until an hour before the competition and somehow it’s still my fault I’m late getting it here.” Milla exhaled loudly, a smile quickly reforming on her face. “Anyways, I didn’t know you knew my kid brother! Makes sense you’re here, then. He has a way of persuading people,” she chuckled.

Otabek stared for a moment in silent confusion before the answer to his unasked questions presented itself on its own. 

How the boy hadn’t heard the cars honking when he ran, distracted into the street.

Why he had handed him his phone to show Otabek where he needed to go rather than directing him as they rode.

Why he had seemingly ignored Otabek’s advice to hold on before he started the motorcycle.

“This is his first international level competition since he lost his hearing,” she explained, a fond smile on her face. “He’d never admit it to anyone, but I’m sure it means a lot to him, having a friend to cheer him on.”

Ah, yes. A friend probably would be welcome. A “creepy-ass homeless guy”, however…

Otabek cleared his throat, glancing back toward where he had parked his bike, “Actually—”

“This competition’s all he’s been able to talk about for months,” Milla interjected. “Pretty obnoxious, if I’m honest.”

Otabek offered a noncommittal hum, unsure of just how to begin explaining why exactly he had even come. However, before an honest attempt at doing so could be made, Milla wound an arm around his and began leading him along after her into the competition hall.

“Anyways, we’d better head in. Y’know, seeing as we’re already late and all,” she laughed.

Otabek’s mouth formed a hard line as he nodded, reluctantly allowing himself to be brought along. He supposed even though he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet than back inside a music hall, at least this inconvenient turn of events meant he’d finally be able to hear the boy from the fire escape play once again.

Otabek picked up his pace at the thought, Milla’s grip on his arm loosening as he began to move forward into the hall of his own accord.

 *

A respectful applause floated softly through the hall as the violinist on stage took a bow. Otabek, though having scarcely any recollection of the performance he had sat through only moments earlier, politely joined in. He was sure the performance had been fine, but in competitions where everyone plays the same set piece, performances were only ever just _fine._ No matter how perfectly one can play a piece, after the first few nearly identical performances, everything begins to sound stale.

Otabek shifted in his seat. Even for an international competition, there was a notably large attendance. In fact, Otabek wasn’t sure he had ever seen this many people at a competition. It hadn’t been too difficult to find seats when he and Milla had entered, but even so, the size of the crowd was distracting.

Had competitive classical violin become more popular since the days when he used to attend the competitions of old friends back in Kazakhstan?

Was the Russian classical music scene just this much more vibrant than that of his hometown?

Yeah. That was probably it. 

A sharp sting in his ribs broke him from his thoughts, “Yuri’s on next!” Milla chirped, continuing to elbow him in excitement.

"Yuri," huh? Come to think of it, Otabek hadn’t even bothered to search the competition program for any information on the strange violinist he had come to see, despite knowing almost nothing about him.

He sat upright and began flipping through the pages of the program until he landed on the photograph of the previous violinist to compete. If Yuri was next to play…

He turned the page and, in an instant, was captured within it.

 

A deep rumble of applause vibrated through the air around him, allowing Otabek’s eyes to finally break from the page before him to see a suddenly familiar presence on stage before him.

The boy held his eyes shut for a moment and took a small bow. His head rose along with his instrument, his eyes alight with a fire Otabek could feel as though it were burning in his own hands.

“Yuri Plisetsky,” Otabek breathed.

 

The moment bow met string, the air became charged with electricity. Though the song he played was still the same set piece as everyone before him had played, the feeling of the song was immediately different from the rest. The tempo was erratic, as if having a mind all its own. The dynamics of the original piece seemed to have been ignored altogether. Even the accompanying pianist seemed to be at a loss for how to keep up with the ever-evolving melody being born from Yuri Plisetsky’s violin.

His playing was wild, a creature possibly beyond even its creator’s control.

Otabek stared, dumbfounded, at his former muse. As a young pianist, his music had been sparkling, dazzling. But now, he was absolutely blinding.

He moved with his violin as if it were a natural part of him, his playing perfectly integrated into his features. This was no longer borrowed music; the song was his.

The song _was_ Yuri Plisetsky, and Otabek, his captive.

 

Just as naturally as it had begun, the sound of the violin dissipated into silence, settling over the audience like an enchantment. Not a sound was made as the young violinist lowered his instrument and looked back out at the audience. A ghost of a smile formed on the boy’s lips as he took his bow and exited the stage, leaving the auditorium to steep in the stupor he had cast over it.

Although the silence had surely been broken long before the end of the competition, Otabek had been buried far too deep in the enigma that was Yuri Plisetsky’s performance to realize it. Perhaps he never would’ve found himself a free man again had it not been for Milla shaking him playfully by the shoulder to inform him that everyone else had already exited the auditorium.

Slowly, Otabek shook his head as if waking from a deep sleep and rose from his seat, Milla following suit as she chuckled softly to herself.

*

“Wasn’t he amazing? I still can’t believe he actually went for it!” Milla gushed. “You should’ve seen the look on that judge’s face! Not that it was anything compared to the look on your face!” Milla nudged his shoulder playfully.

As much as Otabek wanted to retort, to downplay how profoundly he had been affected, blindsided by the performance of his childhood hero, he simply couldn’t find the words to do so. Instead, he simply ignored her, eyes sifting through the crowd as he desperately searched for the exit.

However, all hope of an easy escape was quickly thrown out the window the moment he locked eyes with the blond violinist from across the room.

Almost immediately, Milla’s hand found his own, dragging him along after her as she cut effortlessly through the crowd, her other hand waving above them wildly in hopes of catching Yuri’s attention. By the way the violinist dramatically rolled his eyes as he watched the two approach him, Otabek was sure her message had gotten across.

“Geez, Milla, you can stop waving like an idiot now! I’m deaf, not blind!” the blond complained loudly.

“Really? C’mon, you can’t seriously be in a mood like _this_ after a performance like _that_! No one’s ever made a comeback performance quite like that! Especially in a competition this serious! I gotta say, I’m proud of ya, kid!” Milla laughed, clapping him on the back.

She was right. And not just about the quality of the violinist’s performance.

Otabek wasn’t sure how he hadn’t realized until now what exactly Yuri had done with a performance so wild, with so much deviation from the way the set piece had been intended to be played, the way it _had been_ played by every other competitor, at an international level competition. Playing as he did, Yuri stood absolutely no chance of winning. In fact, there was no way he hadn’t been almost immediately disqualified.

Yuri Plisetsky had never intended to compete seriously in the first place.

No, his comeback performance needed to be so much more spectacular than a simple win.

“Yeah, well…” Yuri shrugged her hand off and turned away, managing to hide his small, satisfied smile from Milla’s eyes, but not quite from Otabek’s.

“Really. It was…” Otabek began, unsure of why he had started speaking and desperately wishing he hadn’t.

A smirk slowly spread across Milla’s face as she watched her classmate scramble to recall what it was like to employ human language, her reaction seeming to draw Yuri’s attention to Otabek.

Otabek exhaled, trying to gather his composure. “I’ve seen you play before, when you were younger. Back when I played piano, I always hoped I’d get to compete against you.” He rambled, internally screaming at the way words seemed to just tumble awkwardly from his mouth. “I didn’t recognize you at first. But when you played then, I saw it—”

Oh no.

He was going to say it out loud, wasn’t he?

No.

There was still a way to play this cool.

Surely, he had enough remaining self-control to—

“—Yuri Plisetsky had the unforgettable eyes of a soldier,” Otabek finished, his even tone masking his internal panic.

Piercing green eyes searched Otabek’s in disbelief, clearly unsure of what emotion they wished to communicate. After several moments of agonizing silence, Yuri slowly averted his gaze.

“A soldier…” His tone was much softer now, standing in stark contrast to his previous brashness. Tentatively, he looked back to Otabek, when a rough hand falling on his shoulder abruptly sharpened Yuri’s gaze, his head whipping around to glare daggers at the sudden appearance of a cheerful looking man with silver hair.

“Wow, Yurio!” The man cheered, applauding gracefully, “You really managed to surprise me! Amazing!”

Yuri scoffed. “Can it, old man. If you gave half a shit, you wouldn’t have forgotten the promise you made me. And after you made such a big deal of it, too,” he spat.

The man offered Yuri a guilty smile, raising his hands up placatingly in front of him, “Ah, I know you’re angry with me, but you know I didn’t mean to abandon you. I honestly didn’t remember promising to be your accompanist. You know how my memory is.”

Yuri’s eyes seemed to roll all the way back into his head as he groaned in frustration. “Yeah, yeah, I’m painfully aware at this point. But your shitty memory has nothing to do with the fact that the best performance of my life was totally upstaged by Victor _fucking_ Nikiforov playing accompanist for my fucking competition!” The blond turned his body completely away from the man, effectively closing himself off to further conversation.

Wait—

Victor Nikiforov.

_The_ Victor Nikiforov, the most famous pianist in all of Russia, was standing right in front of Otabek, having his very existence cursed by the trademarked teenage rage of Yuri Plisetsky.

What the hell dimension had Otabek entered?

And how had he become so out of touch with the classical music scene as to not immediately recognize the personal hero of virtually every pianist in the world?

And more importantly, still—

“Victor Nikiforov played at this competition?” Otabek whispered as subtly as possible to Milla, though Yuri’s soft snort and disbelieving smirk indicated he must’ve been able to read Otabek’s lips.

Though Milla did, graciously, manage to hold back her own laughter, amusement was plain on her face. “He accompanied the Japanese violinist Yuuri Katsuki. Y’know, right after Yuri?” She smirked, her eyes sharp, teasing him mercilessly.

“Anyway,” Yuri interjected, stretching his arms up above his head and taking a step forward just in time to dodge Victor’s outstretched hand. “I’m outta here.”

Victor’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but before he could react properly, a shy, dark haired man, who Otabek reasoned was most likely the Japanese violinist Victor Nikiforov had accompanied, stepped out from behind him and politely tapped Yuri on the shoulder.

The blond turned, expression quickly shifting from exhaustion to animosity as he realized who was trying to get his attention.

“Um, Yurio…”

Yuri snorted curtly, “Cut the ‘Yurio’ crap! If having the same name as me is too confusing for you, change your own name, Katsudon!”

“Sorry,” the other Yuuri apologized good-naturedly, roughly signing along with his words, “Aren’t you going to wait for the results?”

The blond exhaled, growing visibly calmer as he turned away from his rival musician. “Nah. Your problem, not mine,” Yuri shrugged, pulling the hood of his jacket up over his head and throwing his leopard print instrument case over his shoulder before continuing toward the exit.

 

Otabek’s gaze followed Yuri to the doors as they slid open, revealing the old man from the pirozhki shop. Perhaps he was a relative of Yuri’s, given the fact that they seemed to share the same building.

Standing deliberately in his path, incredulous eyes bored straight into the teenager as he began to expertly sign to him. Yuri shrunk back slightly before signing something back, a corner of an uncharacteristically wide smile visible on the side of his face as the old man’s expression melted into something considerably softer. The two shared a long embrace before parting, the man motioning in the direction of a vehicle that Yuri appeared to show distaste towards. Reluctantly, the violinist headed for the car, the old man following after him until the two had vanished from Otabek’s sight.

For some reason, Otabek found himself wondering then whether their car would head in the direction from which Yuri had been running earlier that day.


End file.
